Save the Drama for the Stage
by crimson-obsidian-rose
Summary: Arthur is a young screenplay writer and director who wants to make a name for himself, but will that be possible with a flirt like Francis Bonnefoy as his star? FrUK, and a whole slew of characters in roles you've never seen them play!
1. Chapter 1

Ladies and Gentlemen of , I present to you my latest brainchild, and my first multi-chaptered Hetalia fanfiction, "Save the Drama for the Stage". This fic will have eventually FrUK, as well as a few more pairings that will be disclosed in due time, and is going to feature a whole slew of the cast in a theatre AU. I hope you all enjoy this, and that I can manage to make this fic work. Without further ado, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, that right belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya-sensei.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 1 **

"That's it, I quit!"

"You can't quit!"

"Oh, then what do you call my leaving and not returning?"

"Would you just stop being so _bloody_ dramatic about this and get back to work?"

"But that's exactly it, I'm an _actor_, I'm meant to be dramatic! Handling the verbal abuse of some red-faced, dictatorial, nit-picky, by-the-book and downright irritating director, however, is _not_ part of the job description!"

"Fine then, go already! Leave like all the others; you weren't that gifted an actor in the first place!"

"Consider me already gone!"

"...So, does this mean I need to make new signs again?"

Arthur Kirkland turned around quickly, his red face and his thick, furrowed eyebrows radiating such a hateful glare that even Alfred had to take a few steps back.

"It was just a joke, man, honest. But seriously, isn't that, like, the fifth guy you scared away from this place?"

Arthur grumbled obscenities roughly under his breath, rolled his eyes violently, and sneered at the younger blond. Alfred jumped up to sit back down on his crate, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Aw, is Mister Grump-Grump back? No wonder that guy ran away in fear of the formidable ferocious Artie-brows!" He chuckled, resting a hand over the stack of now useless fliers and posters he'd been passing out and stretching his back out in the bright afternoon sunlight.

"No one asked for your stupid opinion. If we wanted to hear what you had to say we wouldn't have stuck you outside of the theater all day."

"Aw, don't be like that Artie."

"Arthur. _Ar_-thur. Get it right, you insolent brat."

"Okay, so, one, you're only like, what, four years older than me? Where do you get off calling me a brat? And two, you _need_ to calm down. I think that vein in your forehead is going to rupture."

Arthur clenched his teeth, deciding it was best to keep his comments to himself, and go back into the theater where he could escape both the stifling summer heat and Alfred's terrible sense of humor.

Just as he was about to open the door, however, it swung open.

"Was that noise what I think it was?" Tino, the co-owner of the theater, stepped out into the hot London streets, violet eyes giving Arthur a sharp look.

"Somebody's in trouble." Alfred practically sang from his perch, and Tino gave him a quieting look before turning back to Arthur.

"He was a miserable actor anyways, we didn't need him."

Tino sighed, grabbing a hold of Arthur's arm.

"Just, come with me. We have to talk about this."

* * *

"So, tell me what happened."

Arthur sighed, sitting uncomfortably in a seat in Tino and Berwald's office, a large desk in between him and his employer. This was a place he'd found himself in far too often, although Arthur would say that it was not his fault, but that of faulty actors who were unfit for his cast in the first place.

"He started complaining that I was being 'too demanding' and that I was 'stifling his creativity and expression of the character', but I've personally seen more creativity in a lamppost."

Tino paused, and Arthur could see that he was choosing his words carefully.

"Did you ever consider the fact that maybe your level of perfection is asking too much of your actors? They're only human, after all."

"And I'm human as well, but as you can see I'm perfectly excellent at following directions."

"Oh? Good, then, because I have new directions for you. Berwald and I took you in because we believed in your abilities, because you are very talented at what you do-"

Arthur could not keep the beam of pride on his face, but then Tino continued, "But, if this show does not go on as scheduled, we'll mostly likely go bankrupt."

There was a bitter smile on Tino's face that told Arthur he was being completely serious, and the grin that had been on his face moments ago vanished.

"Oh… I see."

"So, I'm afraid I'm only going to be able to give you one more chance. There is another actor who has said he would take on the job, but if something else goes wrong, we won't be able to replace him in time for the show to happen, so…"

"Right, I understand." Something about Tino's tone, and the way he was pushing this so much, was making Arthur nervous about meeting this person. Still, he wasn't about to ruin the couple's life's work for his own overzealous ambition.

"And you'll try to get along?"

Arthur was just about to assert that he had done nothing wrong, but once he'd opened his mouth the challenging look Tino gave him mad him shut it promptly.

"Fine."

"Good. Now, then I guess that's it for this meeting. Your new star should be here about noon tomorrow."

Arthur nodded once more and, when Tino waved him off with a carefree smile, he left the other man to his paperwork and headed back to his own desk.

* * *

"Ha, I win the pot again! Take that, old man!" Peter Kirkland chortled, his hands reaching into the center of the pile and grabbing the assorted objects (including, but not limited to, several shillings, a few pounds, some bubblegum, a piece of string, a hair clip, and something so covered in mold none of the players knew what is was) and pulling the heap towards him.

Gilbert grimaced at his lousy hand before looking up; "Aren't you too young to be gambling, you little brat?"

"You're just jealous because your poker face sucks!"

"Yeah, well you're just jealous because you're not awesome!"

"I am so awesome! I'm so awesome that, um…I can fly!"

"Oh yeah? Well, then, let's go up to the roof and see that for ourselves, demon child."

Normally, Elizaveta would have simply walked away when Gilbert and Peter got into one of their squabbles, as amusing as they could be, but seeing the glint of evil in Gilbert's eyes suddenly made her worry.

"Hey, hey, you lost fair and square, Gilbert."

The albino grumbled, plopping back down onto the hardwood stage. "A real man would put the whole pot in again and keep the game going. Are you man enough, kid?"

Elizaveta wanted to laugh at how sad it was, seeing Peter take the bait so easily. Swiping up the cards again, she shuffled the deck and looked up at her poker buddies.

"So then, any news?" She asked, trying to keep her voice level as she dealt out the cards.

"Oh, yeah," Gilbert started, looking thoughtful. "Feliciano caught Feliks and Toris making out in the backroom yesterday."

Elizaveta rolled her eyes from behind her cards, while Peter made obnoxious gagging noises, "Those two are old news, Gilbert."

"Well, excuse me for not being up to date. And what kind of a psychic are you, that you can't even tell what's going on?"

"I am an excellent psychic! Remember the time I predicted you'd suffer a non-fatal head injury, and then exactly that happened?"

"That's because you _hit me_ with a _frying pan_!"

"Well, I suppose that could possibly contribute to it," she smirked, seeing Peter peek at Gilbert's cards while the other was distracted, and choosing not to comment. "Anything else you have to tell?"

Now Gilbert was smirking, and Elizaveta knew he was hiding something good.

"Well, I guess I could tell you about the new lead that's supposed to be coming tomorrow since Director Fuzzybrows chased off that other guy, but you wouldn't want to know about that, anyways-"

"Tell me, tell me, _tell me_!"

"I guess I could tell you, but you would owe me a favor…"

"Anything!"

"-which I could redeem _whenever_ I wanted to."

"Deal," she cut in quickly. "Now, tell me."

"His name is Francis Bonnefoy; he's blond, straggly, sort of well known in the Paris scene, but his reputation as a flirt and playboy when the curtains close made it hard for him to find work there anymore. So he's come here to try his luck, but I bet he won't last with Dictator Kirkland."

Elizaveta mulled this over, putting her cards flat against the stage with a smile. "Oh, I don't know about that."

"You're plotting something."

"Me? Never. And oh, you've won," she mused, looking at the cards her poker buddy put down.

"Of course I won, I'm awes-"

"-It's too bad Peter left with the pot five minutes ago…"

Ten seconds later, Elizaveta was shuffling the deck again and putting it away, smiling at the sound of a scandalized Gilbert shouting after Peter throughout the halls.

_To Be Continued_

* * *

A/N: As I said before, I'm trying a lot of new things with this fic, so I'm open to any and all critiques you guys can toss at me. I'll do my best to update this as frequently as possible for you, though I'm afraid I can't make promises. Thank you all for reading this!

crimson-obsidian-rose


	2. Chapter 2

Let's not waste time and get right into it, no? Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 2**

"Oh, blast it- where is he?!" The gruff, angered voice of Arthur Kirkland carried up to the high ceilings of the theater lobby as he paused in his pacing for the first time in nearly five minutes to practically snarl at the door, which dutifully remained closed.

"U-Um, sir, he did say he was going to be here at noon-"

"Yes, Matthew, and now its twelve o'three. He's late!"

Matthew visibly flinched, shrinking behind his clipboard and biting his lip. Arthur caught sight of this and sighed roughly, violently running a hand in his messy blond hair.

"I-I'm sure he'll be here soon, sir."

"He'd better be. Do you realize how unprofessional it is to show up late to your first day of work? You may as well not show up at all!"

"Y-Yes, sir…-"

"It's an insult to your employers! If he wasn't our last resort, I would fire him the moment he arrives! If he ever _does_ arrive, that is."

"But sir-"

"Yo, Captain Kirk, what's up?" Gilbert strode into the lobby, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulder and completely ignoring the murderous look he was thrown. He didn't even blink when Arthur violently shoved his arm away, even though it looked to Matthew as if the force of it could blow Gilbert's arm right out of the socket.

"Hey man, calm down. What's got you all worked up?"

"H-He's waiting for Mister Bonnefoy," Matthew supplied, as Arthur was apparently too busy pacing again to answer. "M-Maybe it's best if you don't bother him right now-"

"Bullshit! The old man still hasn't given me, the awesome Gilbert, a part in his stupid play, even though everyone here knows I'm the actor with the most star potential!"

Matthew was fairly certain he'd seen janitors with more star potential (not that he meant to offend Antonio), but wisely chose to keep that comment to himself.

"T-That may be the case, but-"

"Wait, so you agree with me, then, that I should be the star of this show?" Gilbert rounded upon Matt with a beam that the intern felt could send his cousin Alfred's brightest smile crying for a dentist, and the blond hoped that his cheeks weren't as pink as they felt.

"Hey, wait a minute," Gilbert started suddenly, a hand under his chin and his eyebrows furrowed intently, crimson eyes focused on Matthew. "Are you new here?"

Whatever Matt was expecting, that was certainly not it. His features twisted in confusion as he tilted his head. "I've been working here for two weeks now. I'm Berwald's nephew, remember? You, um, inducted me on my first day here…"

And it had been the single most humiliating moment of Matt's nineteen year old life; the snarky voice in his mind snapped that Gilbert had better remember it.

"Oh, right, you're the guy I managed to convince into Felik's old Little Bo Peep costume! You have nice legs for a dude, you know." A moment of shocked silence dropped on the duo, until Gilbert finally realized what exactly he'd said. "I-I mean, not that I was looking or anything, because that's such a gay thing to do, but you know that's what Eli told me and she's such a _girl_ that she notices these things and then likes to tell me about them as if I _actually care_ if Toris is hiding a six-pack or Feliciano looks good in a skirt or if Alfred could pass for a male model, hehe no siree, not me, I could give less about-"

"Oh would you kindly _shut up_ and get out of here already!" Arthur bellowed, and Matthew was secretly relieved when Gilbert didn't hesitate to scurry out of the lobby and up the stairs to the cast and crew's bedrooms. Part of him was left wondering how monstrous Gilbert's lung were to be able to say all that without pausing for air, and he decided to focus on that instead of the odd sting in his chest at hearing the albino talk about the other crew members.

Of course, Arthur didn't leave Matthew much time to do either, turning back to his apprentice with a firmly locked jaw.

"If he does not come in _five minutes_ I am going to go back inside and cast you-"

"_Bonjour, mes amis_!" Matthew was probably never more relieved in his life than he was in the moment when the theatre door swung open and a tall, blonde Frenchman walked into the lobby. He barely managed to contain a heavy sigh as he retreated to the door into the theatre, deciding it wasn't a bad idea to be ready to take cover.

Arthur, however, was far less pleased by the actor's arrival; he turned to the other male without bothering to clear away his angry expression.

"You're late."

"_Je suis desolé, monsieur._ My name is Francis Bonnefoy, and yours?"

Arthur stared at the offered hand with disgust, before ignoring it and glaring back up at the Frenchman.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland. I'm the writer of this play, as well as the director, and I'll have you know I don't take nonsense from anybody." He snapped, crossing his arms over his chest as if to prove a point.

"You'll have to forgive me for my lateness, then. I spotted a lonely young woman who looked as if she could use some company, and it appears I lost track of time."

At first Matthew thought it was impossible for Arthur to get any angrier, but he soon found he was completely mistaken as he could practically feel the hate coming off of the other from across the room. Francis, however, seemed to be only unaffected as he only raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"You mean to tell me that you were late because you were _flirting_?"

"Not flirting, _mon ami_, seducing. There is a slight difference, which I would not mind teaching you, if you were interested."

There was no mistaking the slightly alluring tone Francis' tone had taken on, and Arthur caught himself about to gape at the other, completely speechless. Hoping that it had not been too obvious in the moment that it took for him to recover, Arthur threw the other a last sharp glance before turning away and stomping off.

"Matthew! Take him inside and introduce him to the others." He barked, and the younger blond froze for a moment.

"Where are you going, sir?"

"I need to have a talk with Tino."

* * *

"Wait, so he was five minutes late-"

"_Seven_ minutes late."

"Right. He was seven minutes late, and you want to _fire_ him for it?"

Arthur nodded once, forcefully, and Tino rubbed at the beginnings of a migraine.

"Alright, it's not as ridiculous as you make it sound. He was late because he was flirting, that's hardly a good first impression!"

Tino sighed. "Say we do fire Mr. Bonnefoy, who could possibly replace him at this point?"

"Matthew. Alfred. _Anyone._ I'd even settle for Gilbert at this point…"

"Matthew? Alfred? You would really cast one of Berwald's nineteen-year old nephews as the star of your production?"

Arthur huffed, crossing his arms and rubbing his shoe into the hardwood floor. "No… but I'm sure there is some other actor out there looking for work!"

Tino hummed, bending over to pick up his fluffy white puppy, who was having fun yelping and nuzzling his leg, and looked back at Arthur with an expression the other couldn't identify.

"There might be, but I'm afraid that Berwald and I haven't been able to find any. Mr. Bonnefoy is the only one who answered our calls."

"What? Why?"

This time Arthur could place the rueful smile Tino gave him. "Well, I'm afraid you've earned yourself a reputation. None of the actors in London will give us even a minute of their time when they hear your name."

Arthur froze, and for a moment he looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. Tino bit his lip, but just as he opened his mouth to speak again Arthur put a hand up and shook his head.

"I see. Well, then… if you'll excuse me."

And without another word from either of them, Arthur rushed down the hall to his room and shut the door behind him.

* * *

How are things going to go from here? Who knows, you'll just have to stick around and find out ;) Thank you all for reading, and to all those people who watched, faved, and reviewed the last chapter!

crimson-obsidian-rose


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I apologize for the lateness, and so I will keep this note brief. Please enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 3**

"Right, then, I assume you've looked at the script Tino sent you?"

"Of course."

"Alright, so you're playing the role of Aaron Curtis, the flirtatious young man who, upon meeting a gorgeous young girl, tries his hand at noble, high class society in order to impress her family and marry her."

Francis nods, flipping through the script with a critical eye. If Arthur is impressed by how suddenly serious the other is, he chooses to ignore it.

"_Oui_. But, I do have a question, _monsieur_. Would you say that Aaron is confident, or insecure? _Parce que je me sens qu'il-_"

"In English, please, Mr. Bonnefoy." Arthur interrupted curtly. "And, for that matter, since this play takes place in London, I would like to request that you adjust your accent accordingly. As it stands, you're far too French to be believable."

Francis did not even try to mask the offense he felt, "That is because I am French."

"Yes, I understand, but Aaron Curtis is not French, and therefore I think it should be a given that you adopt British mannerisms and speech."

Of course, Francis had expected this; it was a given in this business to be as authentic as possible, after all. So it was not so much what Arthur was saying that upset him as it was the tone of voice in which it was said; the Frenchman could feel the underlying message of 'and, of course, there is the fact that everything is better English than French', and he was certain he did not appreciate it.

Still, it was only his first day of work, and to leave so early in the game would probably be detrimental to his career. After all, things had not worked out so well for him in Paris, and he could not afford to mess up again here.

So Francis found himself sighing under his breath, clenching the fist Arthur could not see before releasing it and smiling, speaking in his well practiced British accent, "Of course I would. In character, that is. Regardless of what you may believe, I am not an incompetent actor."

Arthur, once he recovered from the momentary shock of how authentically English this man could sound, flushed ever so slightly and snapped, "I never said a thing about your acting!"

"_Non, mon cher_, but the things we do not say are often just as important." Francis replied, and Arthur sensed that the confidence in his tone was his way of asserting his French pride. He bit his lip slightly, both from annoyance at being humiliated and more in frustration at how wise that line sounded. Already a part of his mind filed it away to be applied to a future screenplay, no doubt.

The silence that fell then was thick, and both men began to wonder what was being said in that. Neither found that he could derive an answer, but it was Arthur that looked away first.

"Well, I suppose there will be time for questions later. The rest of the cast and crew is waiting to meet you and begin today's rehearsal."

Without leaving time for Francis to say anything, the shorter blond started down the hall once more, taking the stairs down to the main floor and opening the auditorium door.

The stage was a litter of bodies, with people sprawled out all over in various states of being. From his place on the auditorium floor, Francis could see two men in the back working on sets, a red head who was singing rather off-key while slathering paint on a tarp, and a blond was a focused intently on building… something. A few meters away, a young man and a (beautiful, Francis could not help but note) woman were reading off of scripts, obviously in the middle of a heated argument. There were a few others laughing (some of them quite obnoxiously at that), but before Francis could check them out Arthur cleared his throat and the whole room fell silent.

"Good morning, everyone."

There was a rough, completely unsynchronized mumble as an answer, but Arthur seemed used to it. He didn't comment, placing his papers on the table and picking up the teacup that was already there. He took a small sip of the steaming beverage before starting:

"Right then, I'd like to introduce you all to Francis Bonnefoy, the new male lead. Make him feel welcome." _Or something_, Francis felt like that was hanging in the air, judging by Arthur's tone, but was still relieved that he was not the only one who was going to make an effort.

Within a few moments, Matthew had led Francis up to the stage and was currently introducing the cast members.

"They are Elizaveta Héderváry and Lovino Vargas," he started, gesturing to the couple that had been acting out the fight. "She's playing the female lead, Diana Clarke, and he's playing her younger brother Lucas."

"Hello there!" Elizaveta waved, giving Francis a charming smile. He winked back, only to have a tall, white haired man who'd been arguing with a child when Francis walked in, give a cold, distant laugh.

" Don't waste your time, she's taken. Engaged to the uptight, prissy musician, Roderich. "

"Don't talk about him that way!" She protested, but the albino shrugged and jumped off the stage, extending a hand to the Frenchman.

"I'm Gilbert Weillschmidt, the awesomest actor in the room."

"Oh?" Francis chuckled, raising and eye but shaking the offered hand nonetheless. "What role are you playing, then?"

"Dictator Kirkland refuses to give me one. Guess I'm just too awesome for this show."

Francis somehow doubted that, but Matthew captured his attention once more as he pointed to the two set builders and introduced, "Feliciano Vargas is Lovino's brother, and he's in charge of all the artwork and painting the sets. The blond next to him is Gilbert's brother Ludwig, who builds all the set pieces."

"Hello there!" The young brunet called out, waving with his whole hand excitedly. Francis smiled as paint flew off the brush he was holding, before Ludwig grabbed his arm and coaxed him to calm down.

"Hey you! Potato bastard, let go of my brother!" Lovino exclaimed suddenly, waving his rolled up script threateningly in Ludwig's direction.

"But Lovi!!"

"But nothing!!" Lovino called back angrily, and he continued to throw curses at Ludwig's back as the other went back to sawing through 2 by 4s, shaking his head.

"Like, what is all this noise?"

Looking up, the Frenchman turned his attention to the curtain behind the stage, from which a frowning blond and a nervous brunet were peaking their heads.

Elizaveta turned quickly, "We've got another new Aaron. Introduce yourselves."

The blond suddenly out into the crowd, and smiled perkily when he caught Francis' eye.

"Oh, I totally heard about you from Tino! I'm Feliks. I, like, design everyone's costumes and make sure you all look totally fab! And this is my partner, Toris."

The brunet gave a soft wave, which Francis returned, before Feliks started again.

"So, like, we're totally going to steal you in a few minutes and get you all measured and stuff, so be ready for it." He said quickly, before he and Toris disappeared once again behind the mahogany curtain.

Francis doubted he could ever be ready for someone like Feliks; was that a skirt he saw around the man's waist?

Matthew must have noticed his expression, as he started to explain, "Feliks is a good guy, he's just a little… eccentric."

Francis looked at the young male and smiled, "You certainly like to give people the benefit of the doubt, don't you? It is highly endearing."

As Matthew started to flush, Gilbert threw an arm over the boy's shoulders and interrupted, "So, Dictator Kirk, is it alright with you if I steal this guy away for his initiation?" He had his thumb pointing to Francis, but it was Matthew who flushed and slipped away from Gilbert's hold. Francis noticed the brief look of disappointment on the albino's face, one which quickly vanished when Arthur answered,

"Of course not, he's got to rehearse."

"Yeah, yeah, so, are you gonna give me a role in this dumb play or not?"

Arthur's thick brows furrowed; Francis was torn between wanting to laugh and finding it… cute.

"When you put it that way, of course not."

Gilbert surprised Francis by throwing himself at Arthur's desk, though no one else seemed phased as they went back to what they'd been doing. "Please, please, pleeeeease? I could make this play awesome, pleeeease?"

Francis heard Elizaveta and Lovino snigger, and Ludwig stopped sawing to give a heavy sigh, but otherwise no one was paying attention.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, you'll get a part! You can be… a rock."

"A rock?"

"Yes. You're the rock that Aaron and Diana sit on when she tells him of her parentage. Are you happy now?"

Gilbert didn't need to answer that, the sheer size of the grin on his face was answer enough as he skipped off happily to go harass Feliks into making his costume.

"Well, they certainly are an interesting bunch of characters." Francis commented, and Arthur rubbed at a forming migraine, forcefully gulping down another sip of tea.

* * *

"-And, all the way from Paris, come see Francis Bonnefoy in the first ever run of _Distance_, written and directed by Arthur Kirkland!"

The heat was starting to get to Alfred; when his mother first told him about going to work for Uncle Berwald's theatre over his summer break, standing outside in the blistering summer heat (on the days where there was no rain, of course), was not exactly how he'd pictured his break.

That wasn't to say that he hated his job, he mused as he took a gulp of hot, unsatisfying water. After all, he could be Fuzzybrow's production monkey like his cousin Matt got roped into being. Thinking of that put everything into perspective, and so he grabbed his handouts once more off his box and went to the middle of the sidewalk, only to find someone was hunched over his sandwich board advertisement.

"The name of the main actor changed again, _da_? Did someone else run away?"

Alfred gritted his teeth, annoyed by the childish, seemingly innocent voice.

"Braginiski."

"Jones."

"Get the hell away from my sign, freak."

"But the sign is meant for looking at, no? How else can I know what you're talking about if I don't read it?"

"The sign is meant to be looked at by people who actually want to go to the play, not weirdos who come every day for no reason!"

Ivan Braginski, Alfred's rival since the day he arrived in London, tilted his head and smiled.

"I do have a reason for coming here."

"And that would be…?"

Ivan giggled. He _giggled._ Alfred felt like he was going to be sick for a moment.

"It's a secret~."

Suddenly, the Russian stood up and waved his hand slightly. "I must go home to my sisters now. Maybe I'll tell you someday, _da_? Goodbye, Alfred!"

The younger male stood in shock for a second, before shaking his hand and waving his fist, "And don't come back, Ruski!"

But Ivan simply waved back, and when Alfred heard a group of local women giggling on his behalf, all he could do was rub his neck sheepishly and laugh it off.

But, he decided, he was going to get his revenge.

_To Be Continued_

* * *

A/N: Poland's valley girl accent. I'm well aware it does not fit in with the setting of this story, both with regards to time and place, but please accept it as a stylistic choice. I have a hard time imagining Feliks without it. Also, I'm sorry it took me so long to get this up, but between my laptop troubles and my muse failing me, this way hard to write ^^;

Thank you all for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

...Let's pretend this chapter is not almost a month late and get on with the show, alright?

Disclaimer: I am not a Japanese man named Hidekaz Himaruya, so I do not own Hetalia.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 4**

Elizaveta's eyes were narrowed, and she gave Francis a once-over glance before looking him in the eyes again.

"You look so much more handsome in the nightlight," She commented, and her voice dropped to a sigh as she added, "My brother will never approve of you like this…"

There was a tense silence in the air as the actors stared at one another, before Francis took her hands in his and replied, "Then fix me. Make me into something your brother would want for you."

"I don't want you to change, Aaron." She whispered, leaning into him.

Francis chuckled, tilting his head slightly towards the young woman, whispering "I'll always be yours," before moving his hands around her body and seizing her lips.

Everyone else in the auditorium stopped their side conversations and looked to the stage to watch the stars kiss (with the sole exception of Roderich, who made a point to look away from his fiancée's heated lip-locked session with another man). Soon the sounds of Peter's gagging and Gilbert's cat-calls filled the room, but the two seemed unphased. Especially Francis, who seemed to be rather enjoying himself getting further and further into it…

"That is quite enough, Bonnefoy!" Arthur called, at which moment Francis released Elizaveta and gave his audience a sheepish grin.

"Ah, _excuse-moi_, it is easy for me to get carried away with such a beautiful woman in my arms."

Arthur was unamused, and he continued to give Francis a dirty look until the other stepped away from the woman and hopped off the stage, walking up to his disgruntled director.

"I truly am sorry, _monsieur_," he started, lips downturned and seriousness etched into his features. "I will do better to control myself next time."

Arthur nodded, a little discontent with how close the Frenchman was standing beside him, but choosing to overlook it for now. It was safe to say he was in a reasonable mood, for once; it'd been about a week since Francis joined the cast, and aside from several snide remarks about the script and too much intimacy with the other cast members, everything was going smoothly all around.

"But, if it bothered you so deeply, I will be sure to kiss you next so that you are not so jealous."

Whatever good mood Arthur had was flushed out of his system; Peter and Gilbert took cover behind the curtains.

"Jealous? H-How preposterous! Only a complete oaf would want to be kissed by a frog like you!"

Francis blinked, and from her place watching the scene at her fiancé's side Elizaveta could swear she saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes. Even though it was gone in an instant, the gears in her mind quickly started turning.

"I see," Francis replied cooly. "It's probably better that way, since I would never allow myself to be caught touching my lips to someone whose eyebrows look like caterpillars."

Arthur froze, his jaw slack, before color filled his face.

"Sod off, wanker! Rehearsal is over, everyone get out!"

By then Francis was already gone, but Arthur slammed his hands against his desk for emphasis and soon everyone was following suit. Peter had already scurried off, and Gilbert was already tugging Matthew away, not giving him the chance to try and comfort his mentor. The usual sounds of set building and Felik's gabbing were also gone, and when Arthur looked up again he found that the only ones left were Elizaveta and Roderich, he with a protective hold on her arm that she was trying to pull free from.

"Please, Roderich, just give me a moment."

"Why," he frowned, "so you can become intimate with Mr. Kirkland as well?"

Elizaveta smiled softly, "You know Mr. Kirkland is a gentleman; he would never allow me to do something like that."

"Oh, so you would if he would consent, then?"

Now the young woman laughed airily, giving him a swift, chaste peck on the lips that made Roderich flush. Arthur looked away and pretended not to notice.

"Roderich, you know I only have eyes for you. Now, then, you can punish me for my infidelity later, just please give us five minutes. If you'd like, you may stand right outside and keep time."

After a moment, Roderich sighed and let her go, "Oh, I intend to. Five minutes, Elizaveta." Then the pianist gave Arthur a brief, cold glance before striding out of the room. Elizaveta chuckled softly after him, before walking up to Arthur's table and sitting in the chair opposing his.

"If you'll take a seat, Mr. Kirkland, I think it's time we check your fortune again."

The blond rolled his eyes dramatically, and sighed heavily. "Really, Elizaveta, this doesn't mean anything-"

"Then indulge me, please? You don't have to take it seriously unless you want to."

After a moment's pause, Arthur sighed again and sat down, as Elizaveta almost magically conjured her ancient deck of tarot cards. Shuffling them happily, she looked up with bright eyes,

"What is your question, then? What would you like to know more about?"

"…Anything. Whatever."

"Oh? How about Francis, then?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment, before snapping out, "Anything. That's fine."

"Alright then, let's begin," she said, placing four cards face down on the tabletop between them in a diamond. She pointed at the one closest to her first and said, "This card is Health and Happiness," then the one to her right, "Finances," then left, "Career," and finally the one closest to him, "and Love. Are you ready?"

"Quite."

"Good," Elizaveta said, reaching forward and flipping the cards. "Health and Happiness is the Chariot, your Finances is the Magician, your Career is the Emperor, and Love is the Fool. All of your cards are face up, so all of them hold their true meanings and not the opposites."

"And all this means?" Arthur cut in quickly, voice already bored. Elizaveta tapped the Chariot card and started,

"In order to be happy, you need to learn to use your emotions to your advantage and to embrace them rather than to sweep them under a rug and ignore them."

She gave him a pointed look after that, but the Briton simply rolled his eyes. "Next?"

"The Magician has the ability to take what he has and transform it into something he can use; because this is Finances, if you use your skills to your benefit you will most likely succeed."

"Most likely?" He repeated, a hint of mocking in his tone.

"Well, nothing is certain, you know." She replied sweetly. "The Emperor is a man with a good heart, but who shows it by strict rules and guidelines, much like a Father with his children. He listens and learns from his subordinates while always keeping their best interests in mind."

Arthur grumbled something that sounded a lot like, "If that's the case I deserve more appreciation around here…" before going on, "And the last one? The Fool?"

"The Fool operates by his own rules. He is not strictly good or bad, he has the power to be both, and tends to drop convention in order to find out what is right for him. As a result, he is often looked down upon, though generally he is pleased with his own life."

Now Elizaveta could hardly keep the smile off her face, especially as she could see the gears winding in Arthur's mind. "And you said this one was…?"

"Love."

"Ah… well. There is a great deal of Fools in this one theatre alone, so I'm sure this is nothing for you to get all smiley about."

"But you forget, Mr. Kirkland, the question you wanted answers to was about Francis."

Now Arthur hesitated. "Y-You… you can't mean… you think I'm in _love_ with him? Him, the French frog with stringy hair and disgusting mannerisms and general uncouth barbarism? Preposterous! It's... inconceivable that I should fall for someone so… so awfully _French_!"

As Elizaveta collected the cards again, she had to suppress the inappropriate urge to laugh. "I said nothing, Mr. Kirkland. But for someone who has no romantic inclinations for another, you are protesting an awful lot."

"I-I-I-!" He sputtered, but to no avail. Colored flooded his cheeks, but Elizaveta chose to say nothing about it as she collected her belongings and stood to leave.

"Remember, the cards are only right if you chose to believe in them. Are you superstitious, Mr. Kirkland?"

Before he could answer, she strode out of the room confidently, leaving behind a red-faced, shell-shocked director.

'_There, that should do it._'

* * *

Francis did not want to go back to his room. In fact, he did not want to be anywhere near the theatre, not so much because of anger at what was now the ninth fight in the seven days he'd spent with Arthur Kirkland, but more because of his own frustrations at being confused over his emotions. It was not in Francis' nature to misunderstand his own feelings, but when his inner conflictions started to bleed into his acting it was time for a personal intervention.

"Mr. Bonneyfoy, wait!"

Francis paused, turning back at the sound of the nervous, rushed call of his name. Running up behind him with Matthew, the mousy blond with the clipboard who followed Arthur around and took notes on basically everything he said. It was useful for when Francis decided to tune the man out, at least.

"Mathieu? _Qu'est-ce qu'il y a_?"

"I-I," the boy panted, trying to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed slightly, and Francis found it slightly endearing… before cursing his amorous heart once again.

"Yes?"

"I-I wanted to ask for some advice…"

Matthew trailed off, and Francis felt that there was something more.

"Yes?" He repeated, trying to coax it out of him.

"…About love stuff." The teen's cheeks darkened, and this time it was not from running.

"Ah, I see." Francis smiled widely, almost a smirk, "Come, _mon petit_, let us discuss the situation in greater detail."

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

A/N:

I know nothing about tarot cards; all my information came from the internet. If I got something wrong, forgive me, and explain it to me in a review. I won't promise that I will change the fic, but I will acknowledge my mistake publicly (XD) and I'd love to learn~

Elizaveta fancies herself a fortune teller. According to her, that deck of tarot cards once belonged to her great-great grandmother who was a very superstitious woman, but Gilbert is always quick to ask her how she knows her mother didn't get that deck at pawn shop. Surprisingly enough, she often doesn't have an answer.

I don't know why I decided to add that dimension to her character, but ever since I got the idea I can't get it out of my head. To me, it really fits her personality...

Thank you all for reading! I promise it won't be another month until the next chapter.

crimson-obsidian-rose


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Still don't own Hetalia.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 5**

"Hey, Ludwig, just the guy I was looking for!"

The blond looked up from his two-by-fours and tool box, wiping his forehead on his sleeve and turning around to meet Alfred's bright, excited grin.

"Hello, Alfred."

"How've you been, man? It's been a while since we last talked!"

Ludwig could honestly not remember the last time he'd had an actual conversation with Alfred, probably because such a time had not existed, but he didn't question it.

"I've been doing well. And yourself?"

"Ah, you know, sitting out in the sun, passing out flyers, chatting up local girls, that sort of thing."

"I see."

Alfred leaned over a completed set piece (and Ludwig found himself hoping it wouldn't snap under the teen's weight), watching as the older blond went back to work silently. But it was the kind of silence that Ludwig knew from dealing with Feliciano (the rare few times the bubbly Italian was silent) was not actually silence but was some unwillingness on the part of the other person to say what was on their mind.

The German had to admit, Alfred did not strike him as the type of person who had inhibitions, especially when it came to talking, but apparently there they were.

"Hey, Ludwig?"

This time he did not look up from his work. "Yes?"

"I sort of… need some help…"

Ludwig looked up from the street sign he was constructing, to find that to his surprise Alfred was looking off at a random spot on the stage, refusing to meet his gaze. It was strange, to say the least.

"You know Ivan, right? Tall, big guy, always wears a scarf, has two sisters, a freak and the creepiest thing to grace the face of the Earth, is _Russian_?"

Ludwig sighed, already not liking where this was going.

"Yes, I know Ivan Braginski."

"Well, he's sort of… giving me some trouble. And I was wondering if maybe you could help me get rid of him…"

"Alfred," Ludwig started, putting the hammer down as his tone suddenly became more serious. "Are you asking me to help you _kill_ Ivan?"

"Kill him? Nah, I just wanna make it so that he stops bothering me every day."

Internally, Ludwig sighed in relief, though his face didn't show it. "Why are you asking me for help?"

Alfred frowned, "Well, I asked Uncle Berwald for help before, and he was going to see what he could do but Aunt Tino didn't want him causing any trouble outside the theatre and scaring off business."

Ludwig would never admit that he hadn't heard Alfred's excuse because his mind had been too busy trying not to snort when he'd heard "Aunt Tino."

"Ah, well, I'm sorry, but I think I will also be unable to help you," he started when his mind recovered.

"Huh? How come!"

"..I would rather not get involved." He answered, vaguely, and no matter how much Alfred pleaded and begged he was ignored with a cold shoulder so icy the American found himself wondering why Feliciano liked to lean against it so much.

"Fine, whatever, I don't need your help anyways." He snapped, but there was still something in his tone that led Ludwig to believe he wasn't really mad. He turned on his heel, ratty sneakers clicking against the stage floor as he stalked off.

"No, you do not." Ludwig said simply, but the acoustics in the auditorium made his voice clear to Alfred, who paused and turned around.

"Huh?"

"Whatever it is Ivan is doing, he is both harmless unless provoked and most likely he does not realize that he is bothering you." Yes, that sounded about right; to Ludwig, at any rate.

Alfred took that in silently, before sighing. "Well, he's fucking annoying even if he isn't trying to be. Always nosing around in my business and talking to be even though he's already said he doesn't want to buy a ticket…"

"Perhaps he is trying to be friendly?"

Now Alfred snorted, bringing a hand to his mouth to suppress laughter.

"Braginski being friendly. Right, like _that's_ possible."

Before Ludwig could get another word into the conversation, Alfred pushed the door open and left.

Sighing, the blond briefly wondered what Feliciano could up to as he put another complete set piece aside to be painted.

* * *

Alfred could hardly say he was surprised that, when he went back outside, water bottle in tow, he spotted Ivan standing by his usual box. What was slightly unexpected was the expression on his face; it reminded Alfred of a lost child he'd seen when his mother forced him to go to the shopping center.

Raking his fingers through his blond hair, Alfred sighed and walked up to the other.

"Braginski."

"Jones."

"What are you doing here?"

Ivan hesitated, but his usual childlike happiness never left his face.

"I don't know. I have nothing better to do, I suppose."

Alfred looked like he was going to protest, but suddenly Ludwig's words echoed in his mind and he merely jumped on the top of his large wooden crate.

"Well, I don't have much to do either. So, I guess it's alright if you sit with me, just this once…"

Ivan suddenly brightened, gently climbing up onto the crate beside him. For a moment, Alfred was afraid the wood was going to snap beneath them (neither of them was very light, after all), but it barely creaked.

"_spasíbo_, comrade," Ivan said, and though Alfred didn't know a word of Russian the man's smile gave the meaning away.

"Don't speak that weird language around here. And… don't get used to this either. Tomorrow I'll go right back to hating you and if you try to get near here I'll deck you."

"Of course."

"I mean it!"

"I know." Ivan sang, and Alfred opened his mouth to protest once again before letting the subject matter drop, leaning back and waiting for passersby to come up to him and ignoring with a soft flutter of the stomach the fact that Ivan's thighs were flush against his.

_To Be Continued _

* * *

A/N:

_spasíbo_ = Russian for 'thank you' (according to the net. If anyone knows otherwise, please tell me!

I'm sorry for the lack of... well, all my main characters in this chapter. They're taking a short break, preparing themselves for the tasty drama to come, and so you get Alfred and Ivan instead (aren't you lucky!). But don't worry, rest assured they'll all be back an getting into _loads_ of juicy drama in the next chapter :3

edit: You did not see that egregious wrong word use.

Thank you all for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Beware, there's drama ahead!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 6**

The house lights in the theater were off, but the darkness didn't bother Gilbert as much as it should have. Looking briefly up at the stage, where a group of young girls in tutus were twirling and dancing, he had to suppress the urge to squeal (because men didn't squeal, of course, no matter how cute those kids were) as he slipped through the aisles and darted to a seat near the back of the auditorium.

Gilbert had seen Matthew and Francis come into the auditorium with the other guests, and a nagging voice his head didn't like the way Francis was holding Matt's hand. Unable to ignore it, he'd followed them into the room, but now he coming to realize it was just too hard to see anything this far away from the stage now that the door had closed.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" A clipped, angry voice whisper-shouted, and Gilbert paused and squinted. The person he'd bumped into in the side aisle of the auditorium was a lot shorter than he was, he noticed immediately. As his eyes better adapted to the darkness, he could see the person's chopped, uneven blond hair and, later, his fierce scowl.

_He's cute_, Gilbert decided, before dropping his voice to a low whispering and replying, "Sorry 'bout that. You come here often?"

A second later he was rubbing his jaw. Man, that blond had a strong left hook.

Resisting the impulse to mention how much he liked feisty guys, Gilbert continued.

"Fine. Whatever. You're not awesome enough for me, anyways."

The albino could swear the other man was rolling his eyes, but decided it must have been a trick of the darkness.

"The least you could do is tell me your name, though, since you punched me and all."

The shorter man took a moment to consider this, before snapping "Vash."

"Cute name. Mine's Gilbert."

"Don't care. Now, move out of my way and let me go."

"Don't really want to," he countered. "What's a violent guy like you doing in a prissy girl's show like this?"

Vash was, for a moment, practically seething.

"My sister is on stage! Now fuck off!" He shouted in a whisper tone, finally shoving Gilbert out of his way and stalking off down to a seat in the front row.

As Gilbert stroked his aching arm, impressed by how powerful Vash was, what with him being so short and thin, his crimson eyes wandered over the auditorium again.

On stage the young girls were still twirling in their tutus, in the crowd there were parents snapping photos and whispering their children's praises, often to the strangers sitting beside them. In the back there was a young couple, the girl (who's silhouette betrayed that she was rather gangly and not very shapely) sitting in her boyfriend's lap, and his hand stroking over the front of her chest. Which, actually, was rather flat… almost too flat. Almost… not breasted at all.

Gilbert squinted, and silently took a few steps towards the back, hardly enough to be noticed by the couple. The figures started to become clearer; both had lightly curled hair, both were wearing trousers, the smaller of the two, who Gilbert had imagined was a girl, was definitely _not_ a girl.

Definitely not, because the smaller of the two was Matt, and Gilbert had known for a fact he was a man (he'd put him in a dress, after all).

The albino was shocked, completely frozen. His eyes scrambled over the two, not able to take the scene in fast enough. But once it clicked in his mind, and he realized that must have been (and was) _Francis_ in whose lap Matt was sitting, he was out of the room in less than a second.

* * *

"I fucking told you already, Matt and Francis were watching that ballet crap thing together. What the fuck more do you want from me?"

"Details, Gilbert, details! How are you be so sure that they were even _together_?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because Matt was fuckin' sitting in Francis' lap and the French bastard had his hands up Matt's shirt and was feeling him up!"

Elizaveta froze, not so much because of what Gilbert said, but because of the way he'd said it. His face was flushed, his crimson eyes flashing, palms curled into fists that were so clenched it was as if he was wringing the air around him. His voice, while loud and enraged, also sounded choked and hurt underneath all that anger, something she could tell just from having known Gilbert for as long she did.

Wordlessly, Elizaveta wrapped her arms around Gilbert's chest, causing him to instantly relax his arms, more in shock than anything else.

"Liz…?"

"You… You really like Matthew, don't you, Gilbert?" She whispered, and the albino was all too quick to push her away with a forced chuckle.

"Haha, yeah, right. What would make you think that anyways? I mean, s'not like I always watch over him to make sure Kirkland doesn't work him too hard or as if I thought he looked good in that dress or anything." He snorted, and Elizaveta laughed.

"But you do exactly those things, Gilbert. And now you're getting mad because you think you saw Francis and Matthew sitting together-"

"Excuse me?" A third, new voice cut in, and without turning around Elizaveta felt her blood freeze. Arthur Kirkland.

"Y-Yes, Director?" She finally said, turning around with a smile. _Think charming, Liz, act innocent_. "Did you need anything?"

Arthur's expression was one that Elizaveta had never seen on his face before; if she had to put a word to it, it'd have to be distant. For someone so usually engrossed in his surroundings, so much a part of everything that was happening, to see him looking so uncharacteristically dazed was worrisome.

"I… I thought I heard you say something to Gilbert…" He paused for a moment, and then sighed. "Never mind, I'm sure I misheard."

"Misheard what?" Gilbert's voice teetered on a snarl, and Elizaveta wished he would stop talking right then. "That the fucking French bastard stole Matthew and turned him into his sex slave-"

"Gilbert! That's not how it was and you know that!" Elizaveta snapped, and turned away from the albino's pout to find that Arthur was somehow looking more distant that before; his face was practically expressionless.

Even more surprising was how calm his voice was when he asked, "How did it happen, then, Elizaveta?"

"I… All I know is that when Gilbert went into the theater during the young girls' ballet troupe performance he saw Matthew and Francis sitting together-"

"Matt was _sitting_ in his _lap_!"

Arthur's poker face remained intact, and after a brief moment of silence he wordlessly strode out of the room.

* * *

"They are talking about us, _mon cher_."

"Y-Yeah… I heard…"

Francis sighed softly, taking another sip of his sip before elegantly putting his glass down on the café's smooth, dark table. He looked at Matthew, who was sitting before him with the barest amount of confusion traced in his soft features, fingers twisting in his lap until the table and his drink completely untouched.

"And, how do you feel about it?" _About this_, he was saying, and the glimmer in Matt's eyes told Francis he was understood.

"I don't know. I guess… no one has ever talked about me before. It's… sort of nice?"

Francis nodded, taking another sip and noticing the way Matt's eyes followed his tongue as he licked his lips.

"A-and… I don't… mind, this."

"This what, Mathieu?" Francis looked up, caught Matthew's confusion, and explained, "If you cannot say it with me there is no chance you will be able to say it to anyone else."

Matt took a moment, sighing softly under his breath, before looking up with a sweet smile;

"I don't mind dating you, Francis. I-In fact… I like being with you."

_To Be Continued_…

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed! The next chapter should be up soon~ Please review to share any comments or concrit you might have!

Thank you all for reading,

crimson-obsidian-rose


	7. Chapter 7

This is a chapter you'll ALL want to read, so I won't waste your time.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 7**

There was no one in the theater's cast and crew who hadn't heard about Francis and Matthew's relationship. For the past ten days they'd been treated to Francis strolling off after rehearsals, always taking Matthew by the arm and leading him out of the theater, only to have them return several hours later when darkness was just about to fall.

Alfred knew for a fact that Uncle Berwald and Aunt Tino had pulled Matt aside once they heard about this new relationship, acting in place of Matt's parents back in Toronto and giving him the dating lecture (which Al imagined was probably hilarious, given the fact that Matthew was nineteen years old and receiving the talk from an uncle and "aunt" he barely remembered from his childhood). But apparently whatever they'd had to say had not deterred him, and Matthew and Francis were still going steady.

That wasn't good enough for him, though; Francis didn't really seem like a creep, but more often than once Alfred caught him flirting with the local girls (many of which were _his_ to flirt with), and he knew he didn't want his cousin to be hurt by a player. Matt was the closest thing he had to a brother, after all.

So, on a rainy morning when Alfred was relieved of his advertising duties, he managed to catch Matthew in their shared bedroom while the latter was brushing his hair and asked bluntly,

"What is going on with you and Francis?"

Matthew hesitated, the brush freezing in his hair for a second before continuing through his tangled curls.

"I know you've heard, Al, you don't have to ask."

"Yeah, but I wanna hear it from you. I don't even know what gossip to believe anymore."

"Well, what have you heard?"

"Hm… well, yesterday someone told me they saw Francis take you to one of those seedy sex motels-"

"What?"

Alfred laughed, seeing how bright red Matt was, even up to his ears.

"W-where did you hear that? That never happened!"

"See?" Alfred smirked, "This is why I came to ask you, instead of trusting those nasty rumors."

Matthew sighed, rolling his eyes slightly in annoyance at just how much of a brat his cousin could be.

"Francis and I are dating, Al. That's it."

"But… how? When did you two even talk, or spend any time together, or anything to decide that you should date?"

Matt paused, finally turning around and, with pink-tinged cheeks, tilted his head.

"Al, did you just say something…rational?" He beamed, "I'm glad I was here to share the moment with you."

"Hey, I say smart things all the time!"

"Sure you do. Just like when you decided it was a good idea to tell Peter that if he jumped off the roof, he'd be able to fly."

"Hey, Fuzzybrows liked the idea!"

"Yes, until he realized his baby brother was about to actually _jump off the roof_."

Alfred coughed. "Yeah, well, I didn't expect the kid to take me seriously. And quit changing the subject, would you." His expression mellowed into something more serious, more concerned.

"I'm worried about you, Matt."

Matthew hesitated, putting the brush back on the bureau and snapping, "Yeah, well, don't. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm older than you, for Pete's sake-"

"-Only by three days!"

"Yes, and you of all people should know that makes me old enough to make my own decisions! I'm sick of everyone treating me like a child, Al, why can't you just trust me?"

Matthew didn't wait for an answer, though; he turned around and made for the door once his plea was out.

"…You're hurting Gilbert, you know. Even though he won't say anything, everyone can tell he's bummed."

Matthew's hand hesitated at the doorknob, but seconds later the door was clicking shut behind him.

Alfred sighed, running a hand through his unkempt bed head. "Geez, Matt, I'm the one who's supposed to do the reckless things."

* * *

"Right then, there are only seven days left until we open to the public, and our performance has to be better than perfect!"

"It's impossible to be better than perfect, dumbass." Lovino grumbled, but Arthur heard him and his scowl deepened.

"For that, Vargas, we're doing one of your _completely rubbish_ scenes. Maybe you can try a little harder not to be so dreadful."

A string of muttered curses followed, which Arthur pointedly chose to ignore as he sat at his desk beneath the stage. "Act 4, Scene 1, from the top!"

While he waited for his actors to get in place, Arthur sighed, slumping over his desk and catching sight of his miniature William Shakespeare bust.

"Oh, Willie, give me strength."

He sighed once again, turning his attentions back to the stage, where on Lovino and Elizaveta were all ready and waiting for their cue.

"Right then, start."

"I saw you last night, Diana. What did you think you were doing?"

"Why, brother, I have no clue whatsoever as to what you're speaking of. Care to be more specific?"

Arthur nodded, pleased with the barest hints of worry Elizaveta had managed to weave into her tone. Even Lovino had managed to channel his anger in his favor, making his body language and tone a lot more fitting than usual. The director made a mental note to infuriate Lovino again before the show.

Lovino narrowed his eyes, pointing an accusatory finger at Elizaveta.

"Last night, you were sitting with some… some _commoner_. Planning to run away and marry him, no doubt. Have you no sense of pride?"

"Hardly. I know my place, brother; I wasn't about to run away with a strange man-"

"But I heard you talking! You said you were going to have him, and no one else."

"Yes, I did. However, I do not intend on running away with him. I am going to marry him legally, brother, and there's nothing you can do about that."

Lovino froze, sighing harshly and shaking his head.

"That man is playing you like a fiddle, Diana! He told you that he would always love you, didn't he? That you were always going to be in his heart. But it's just a load of rubbish, Di!"

Now Elizaveta was taken aback, but her recovered quickly, eyebrows furrowing in determination,

"How would you know? Is that what you do to women, Lucas? Everything that Aaron said, he meant. So why don't you allow me to make my own decisions and stay out of it, _baby_ brother?"

Lovino held in a growl, but when he spoke it was still a snarl, "I want to protect you! Do you think I am doing this just because I want to make you unhappy?" His expression softened, then, as did his voice,

"You're my sister, Di, I want you to be safe…"

"I am. And I will always be so long as I am with Aaron." Her expression softened as well, and she gently kisses Lovino on the cheek. "Your concern makes me very happy, Lucas; you never fail to make sure I'm loved. But if you really love me, brother, you'll let me go."

Lovino sighed, and gave Elizaveta a rueful smile. "I wish I could, sister, but this is for your own good."

With that, Lovino exited stage left, and Elizaveta was left on stage as Feliciano and Ludwig drew the heavy curtains closed.

Feliks, Toris, Peter, Alfred, Antonio, along with Roderich, Tino, and Berwald, managed to fill the auditorium with their booming applause and cheers. Arthur found himself joining in, despite himself, a small smile gracing his features as Lovino stalked off the stage and plopped into an auditorium seat. He might have been a harsh director, yes, and that might have earned him a repertoire of not-so nice nicknames, but none of the people in his crew could say it wasn't effective after seeing acting like that.

Then Arthur noticed that Gilbert was clapping so weakly it couldn't even be considered half-hearted, and the smile slipped off his face. Just in time, of course, for the curtain to open once again and the next act to begin.

Ludwig and Feliciano had hustled to replace the sets, changing out what was the interior of an elegant sitting room with fake plants and the backdrop of a lake. Elizaveta was seated center stage on a large (fake) boulder, one that struck Arthur as being very obviously Gilbert-less. Once he had been casted, Feliks and Toris constructed a large, papier-mâché grey rock costume for him to crouch under, and for the first entire week the albino had spent every waking moment underneath it, often jumping out at people as they walked by until they came to expect it and it was no longer fun for him.

But, since Gilbert had found out about Matthew and Francis, he refused to rehearse under it, stating that it was a pointless role anyways, and his behavior was too violent and uncooperative for Arthur to bother trying to change his mind.

So, Elizaveta sat alone upon an empty rock costume, and Arthur called for the scene to begin. She picked at her skirt, twisting the fabric in her fists and worrying her bottom lip.

Francis entered the scene, sauntering on stage with confidence in his stride. Arthur noticed a slight skip in his step, and for reasons he was unable to figure out the Briton felt himself getting angry.

"Stop swinging your hips like that, you look ridiculous!"

Francis paused, blinking down into the crowd. "But, the script reads that I am to saunter across the stage, which is what I am doing."

"No, that is not what a calm, confident saunter looks like. That is you sashaying across the stage and shaking your ass in our faces as you go."

Alfred snorted, and Berwald shushed him quietly, noticing how quickly Tino had gotten nervous. He was not the only one, though; it seemed everyone was either getting nervous about things getting bad quickly, or else excited with the promise of a fight.

"Why, monsieur, what horrid language-"

"Oh yes, please _pardon my French_."

"I would, if only you could speak it. But, alas, just another thing you have to be jealous of me for."

"WHAT?" Arthur practically roared; Tino grabbed Peter and decided it was time the boy left the room.

"Admit it, _mon cher_, you are jealous of me."Francis tone was still calm and cool, while Arthur was red faced and simmering.

"First off, do not call me that, and secondly, are you _daft_? Why would anyone be jealous of a perverted Frenchman like you?"

"I don't know, why don't you ask yourself."

"I- You- Wherever did you get such a ridiculous idea in the first place?"

Francis sighed. "Face it, in every one of the plays you've ever written, the lead is a man with charisma, with charm, with women and attention. All things that you lack." _And all things that I have._

Arthur slammed his hands onto his mahogany desk, causing the glasses on it to nearly spill over.

"My protagonists also hate themselves. They have to wonder who they really are, and if what they have is what they want. They don't even know who they are looking at when they stare into the mirror. What does it matter, having charm when it controls you?"

Francis didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than before, and heavier.

"Is it not better to be out there, to do something and be loved for it, than it is to be too scared to be do anything and be hated in favor of self preservation?"

When Arthur replied, his voice was just as quiet, but he was impassioned and bold.

"Is it not better to be hated for being yourself, than to be loved for being something you're not?"

Francis paused, clicked his tongue, and decided finally, "Well, our friend Aaron is lucky, then, for he has found a love with whom he does not have to be anyone but himself. Sadly, I do not think you will ever be so blessed, _Directeur_."

With that, Francis was gone.

Arthur was standing behind his desk, head bowed, hands that were bracing himself against the wood shaking violently. It was Elizaveta who moved first, jumping off the stage and taking a tentative step forward.

"Mister Kirkland, sir…?"

Wordlessly, he removed himself from his desk and turned to leave the room, never looking up to meet the many concern faces that watched him go.

From his seat in the side, removed from the rest of the crowd, Gilbert saw tears streak down Arthur's face.

_To Be Continued_

* * *

A/N: Notice, all, that Matthew was not there for rehearsal in the latter half of the fic. Interesting...

By the way, I had always meant for the play itself to parallel the events of the story, and now that you are seeing more of it, how well do you think I am doing with that?

Thank you all for reading ;)

crimson-obsidian-rose


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: See Previous Chapters.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Chapter 8**

The pub is loud, full of laborers just out of their jobs looking for a warm meal, good drink, and some company for the night. The place itself is not so shady, but the owner cannot deny that a large portion of his revenue comes from the size of his waitresses' busts, and so as long as none of the men cause trouble and none of his women are too bruised up, he doesn't question what his employees do after hours.

There is one man, though, who frequents the bar often but always, always leaves alone. A surly blond with thick eyebrows and worry lines already apparent on his young face, he always sits right up at the bar and orders the strongest beer they've got. He always grimaces after the first sip, commenting on how the booze tastes like piss, but it never stops him from getting himself drunk out of his sensible mind (more often than not he'll start talking to unicorns and leprechauns; the bartenders have learned not to question it).

So, when the bell on the door jingles and the owner sees that familiar mop of unruly blond hair, the beer is on the counter before the man is even on the stool.

"Thanks," he says simply, his eyes red and puffy. The owner, manning the bar, doesn't question it, and walks away to go clean a few glasses. He knows that there are a few secrets meant to be shared only between a man and his beer, and he's not about to interfere.

Arthur Kirkland downs half in the mug in a single gulp, but the burn of alcohol down his throat is not enough to overpower the ache in his chest. And the worst part is, to him, that he doesn't even know why there is an ache. Other people have had thing or two to say about his lack of sociability, and usually he would just flip them the bird and be done with it, but this time he could not get over it. The Frenchman's words would not leave his mind…

… _he has found a love with whom he does not have to be anyone but himself. Sadly, I do not think you will ever be so blessed…_

Sip.

_You will never be so blessed._

Sip.

_Who would even want someone like you?_

Siiiiiiip.

_No one would._

Arthur smashed the mug down against the bar, only dregs of foam left in the bottom, and soon another mug was slid his way. He didn't know when Francis' sleazy French accent had been replaced with his own defeated voice, but he knew that the words, as painful as they were, were true. He was never going to find anyone…

He spun in his stool, turning to face the men at the tables; or, rather, to look at the waitresses teasing and flirting with those men. Their skirts were short, corsets tight and breasts only covered from just above the nipples.

For a moment Arthur imagined himself taking a room upstairs and taking one of those women with him; his emerald eyes locked onto a beautiful one, silky blonde curls trailing down her back and her long legs and garters exposed by the flare of her short skirt as she was bent over. When she turned around her cerulean gaze caught his for a moment and she winked, straightening herself in such a way that her breasts bounced. But just as quickly as he could see her, panting and red faced beneath him, her facial structure became more masculine, her jaw sharper and chin sporting some stubble.

Arthur shook his head quickly, turning around with bright red cheeks and downing another mug of beer, requesting a third and receiving it, no questions asked.

It was when Arthur was on his sixth drink that the bell above the door rang once again, and this time would be one that Arthur would later wish he'd had paid heed to. But he did not, uncaring about whoever it was coming in for a hot meal, or a woman, until the person sat down at the stool beside him and ordered, in an obnoxiously familiar French accent, a mug of "your best mead, _s'il vous plait_."

"Francis…" Arthur murmured under his breath, his voice hardly carrying over the sounds of excitement from the rest of the pub. Even though he could not hear himself, the Frenchman looked up and gave him a rueful smile. Arthur could not be sure, especially as his mind was starting to buzz, but Francis' eyes looked tired and bloodshot.

"Arthur." He started, but instantly his sentence lost speed. He paused a moment, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger, and started again.

"Arthur, I did not mean what I said. It was… it came out wrong."

"Oh?" He laughed bitterly, taking another chug of the drink. "An' 'ow the _fuck_ was it suppose' ta be, eh?"

Francis sighed, looking at Arthur with eyes full of remorse, wishing the other would understand. But by this point Arthur was too sloshed to understand, and when Francis came to that realization he changed his mind and looked away.

"For the record, Mathieu and I were never dating."

"Liar." The accusation came a few moments too late, after a thick, awkward silence, but it was still sharp enough to slice through it and still cut into Francis.

"No, _mon cher_, I mean it. Mathieu came to me looking for advice to help him approach Gilbert, and, well, I was… thinking about you. And I just… realized the only way to get your attention was to make myself something unattainable to you…"

"Bollocks. The load of it, bollocks. You think I'm stupid, Bonnefoy? Think you can just –hic- say wha'eva and I'll come cryin' inta yer arms? "

"…I'm not lying."

"An' I dun't believe ya'."

Francis sighs again, more heavily, and finishes off the rest of his mead wordlessly.

"I suppose, then, that I have nothing more to say to you."

"Tha's righ', so take your bull crap and get." Arthur slurs, and Francis stands, putting a lot more money than the cost of his single mead down on the bar before leaving, the bell jingling as he goes.

The bartender comes over to collect the money, giving the remaining blond a once over and saying softly, "You should give 'im a chance."

"Shut the fuck up and get me another beer." He snapped, the sentence so practiced on his drunken tongue that it came out unslurred.

The bartender sighed, and went to go get Arthur what would be his eighth beer of the night.

* * *

Matthew had not shown up for rehearsal that day. Sure, he had intended to show up, right up until the moment when Alfred had brought up Gilbert's name.

Gilbert. He was one of the first people Matthew had met when he'd gotten to England, and definitely the one who left the strongest impression. He was light hearted and devious, tricking Matt into wearing that dress and never letting him live it down, but even with that Matt was grateful. After all, nothing helped one get over their nerves of meeting new people than having to meet them in girls' clothing; it makes talking to them in normal clothing that much easier.

And of course, there was the few moments wherein the albino was affectionate, like when he found the injured baby bird and ripped his shirt to wrap it's wing (Gilbert, of course, did not know anyone had seen that), or those even rarer few times when the kindness was directed at Matthew himself.

There was also all the teasing, that if Matthew was not so timid he would go so far as to call flirting. All the times Gilbert would forget his name and get up close to him to ask for it again, offering substitutes like Michael and Mitch that were almost it but not quite close enough. Or, even more confusing, the times when he'd get flustered around Matt, and end up slinking off to go wreck some sort of havoc or other in an attempt to regain his cool.

It was frustrating. Matthew did not what do with Gilbert, how to figure out what all this actions and words meant. He'd gone to Francis asking for advice, and when the idea of making Gilbert jealous came up…

Matthew couldn't resist. He never stood out, and he never felt good enough, but if for once he became something that belonged to someone, so that someone could hold him and make him feel worth something, then maybe Gilbert would think he was worth something too.

Of course Matthew realized Francis had his own agenda, but since they both benefited from it, he had to say yes. And now here he was two weeks later, sitting near the gate blocking the Thames River from the streets around it, looking over the water and sighing.

"Hey, Matt."

Matthew knew that voice; or rather, he knew who the voice belonged to. But Gilbert's voice was hardly the same; it sounded to him as if someone took all the exuberance and lightheartedness from the other and watered it down so much it was barely there anymore. When Matt realized that he was the one who did that, his heart plummeted and sank into his stomach.

He turned around wordlessly, taking in Gilbert's appearance. His clothes were no more ruffled than usual, but given the fact that they were always quite ruffled that could mean anything. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his trousers, also not unusual, but there was something very obvious in the way he held himself that made Matthew bite his lip.

Gilbert refused to meet Matthew's glance. Never before had Gilbert not looked the person he was talking to in the eye; in fact, he prided himself on his fierce crimson gaze and loved to have staring contests with others (sometimes even with himself).

"Berwald sent me to get you. Said it was getting late and he didn't want you coming back alone in the dark."

"Oh." Matthew couldn't help but wonder why his uncle hadn't decided to send anyone else. Surely he knew what was going, even though he tried to stay out of things as much as he could?

_Of course Uncle Berwald knows,_ he realized, _that's exactly why he sent Gilbert._

Of course, there was nothing Matthew wanted more in that moment than to apologize to Gilbert, and yet here was the perfect opportunity and his mouth refused to work. It was ironic and frustrating that Matthew, who was normally so good at apologizing and usually over things that didn't matter, couldn't even manage to do it when it actually counted.

"G-Gilbert…" He finally choked out, and the albino glanced up quickly before looking back at his shoes and kicking away a pebble.

"Come on. We have to get back."

"N-No. Gilbert, please… wait." Matthew's voice cracked, and that was probably what made Gilbert stop walking and turn around. It didn't, however, bring anything sympathy or empathy to his cold, hard gaze.

"Gilbert… Gilbert I…" He bit his lip, mind scrambling for the right words. The albino would brush off an apology, and he deserved more than that for all the obvious hurt he endured, and that's not even counting all that he suffered in private. A confession of the truth would be better, but still not good enough. Trying to make someone jealous, it's so childish; oh, why did he ever agree to it-

"If you have nothing to say, I'm going."

It was the sound of Gilbert's heel clicking against the cobblestone that brought the right words to Matthew's mouth.

"I love you!"

Matthew froze. A few footsteps away from him, Gilbert froze as well. He turned around, face unreadable, and voice tight and sharp when he commanded,

"Say it again."

"I love you…" Now his voice had slipped to a whisper; nervous, scared, broken. His eyes fell shut, not wanting to know what Gilbert was thinking as his blood colored eyes ran over him.

So he missed it when Gilbert moved to hold him, until the toned arms were hugging him tight, and before his eyes were completely opened he missed it as Gilbert leaned over him and seized from him a messy, wet kiss.

And the wetness, Matt realized belatedly, was not saliva.

* * *

The pub was becoming rowdy. The late night crowd, the ones who were only in it for as much booze and breasts as they could have in a night, the ones with the most problems during the day, were finally leaving the beds of their sleeping wives and flocking the place, and the buzz of drunkenness was not enough to block out their noise.

Arthur took this as he always did; as his cue to leave this setting and start back for his little dorm above the theater. The trek through the streets tonight was more bitter than ever before, longer and slower as his whole body felt too heavy to pick up.

He paused, inhaling slowly the scent of the polluted river air. Blinking a few times to shake the buzz from before his eyes, he noticed a young couple standing underneath a street lantern. Despite all the self-pity and envy that simple moment of intimacy should have brought up in him, Arthur smiled. The moment was romantic, it was simple and elegant and everything that Arthur wished he could capture and bring to the stage. But moments like these were not created, and could not _be_ created, no matter how talented the director or brilliant the actors.

Perhaps he was staring at them for too long, that their faces started to become closer, or maybe the effects of alcohol were just beginning to wear off, but the more Arthur watched them the more the couple started to become familiar. Eerily familiar…

It took a moment before Arthur figured out why: the couple was Gilbert and Matthew.

_Francis… wasn't lying. Oh, William Shakespeare…_

_To Be Continued_

* * *

A/N: I will not apologize or make excuses for the last line, because I love it far too much.

So, Matthew and Gilbert's story is, for the most part, resolved. Of course, they still have a lot of talking to do, which I'm undecided as to whether or not I will write, but yes, they are at the threshold of their happy ending!

I hope you will forgive my fail slur on Arthur's part ^^;


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I've not suddenly gotten rich between the last chapter and this one.

* * *

Chapter 9

The next morning's rehearsal was running smoothly, Feliciano noticed with a smile from his post painting the last of the sets in the backstage area. Everyone had come on time, even his brother and Francis, who were quite often purposely (or, as Francis put it, _fashionably_) late.

As he smoothed his brush over the fabric-y canvas, Feliciano could hear the bustling noises of the rest of the cast and crew, the loudest of which, he realized with a smile, belonged to Gilbert. Gilbert, who'd walked into the auditorium with an arm wrapped tightly around Matthew's waist. Every few minutes, Feliciano saw him duck down and give Matthew a quite peck on the cheeks, or the nose, or the lips. It looked rather silly, coming from someone as rough and crude as Gilbert, but still Feliciano thought it was cute.

Sadly, not everything in the room was as cute and happy as Gilbert and Matthew were; Francis was standing off to the side, eyes shut as he recited from the script he was holding. Feliciano realized it was the first time he'd seen Francis not speaking to anyone else. It was a little scary…

"Feliciano! Stop lazing around and get back to work; we only have four more days and you're not done with sets or props, are you?"

Correction: _Arthur_ was scary. Feliciano squeaked, hiding behind Ludwig for cover and picking up his paintbrush with a shaky hair, swiping it nervously in a wide stroke over the canvas. The blond shifted slightly, intentionally or subconsciously (Feliciano would never know), and the younger Italian was shielded from the brunt of Arthur's glare.

Lovino, not about to be one-upped by the German, threw the director a dirty look.

"Leave my brother the fuck alone!"

"If he did his work properly, I would!"

"He's been in this fucking business longer than you have, bastard, and so have the rest of us. Stop treating us like shit when we all know what we're doing!"

Feliciano briefly wondered if Lovino got mad at Antonio the night before; that would explain this sudden rage.

Arthur seemed taken aback for a moment, and rubbed at his throbbing migraine. Stupid alcohol…

"Just get on the stage and do something…" He muttered crossly, falling into his seat and staring up at the stage. Elizaveta took the initiative, flipping through her script to one of the last acts in the play and staring them off.

"Aaron… are you sure you have to go?" Her hands were clasped at her stomach, her eyes soft and pleading. Francis looked away, his gaze fixed on the stage floor but his voice carrying to the back of the auditorium in a shaky tone.

"Yes. I can't… be here anymore."

"But… why?"

"Why?" He repeated dolefully, "Why not, Diana?"

She opened her mouth, about to speak again, but closed it quickly when he sighed.

"I tried. I tried so hard to be better. To… stop spending my nights out on the town, to stop drinking and to clean up my act. To sleep at a normal hour, to wake up at an even more normal one. To… to impress your friends, your brother…"

Francis' fists were clenched, and his arms were shaking as he trailed off.

"Forget them! Forget my company… forget my brother, even-"

"-Diana…"

"No, Aaron. You can't leave. I… I'll go with you."

He looked up, locking his warm azure eyes with her moist jade ones and gently thumbing at her tears, a palm spreading to caress her cheek.

"Look at you, look at what I've done to you. You love your family… you love them so wholly, so beautifully… I can't take you from them. I'm getting old, Diana. My hair is falling out, my body is tiring. I already have so little to offer you, and soon I will have nothing. You have to stay…"

Elizaveta bit her lip, tears sliding down her full cheeks. "You can love me, Aaron. No one else can give me that."

"Any man would be foolish not to."

"I don't want it from them!" She snapped, shaking her head and furrowing her eyebrows. Her expression softened, though, as she continued.

"I want it from you."

"…I can't stay."

"You can stay."

"I won't stay…"

She looked at him sharply, determination shining in her eyes.

"_You will stay._"

She punctuated her sentence with a kiss. It was obviously forceful, but also too short for what the scene needed.

The cast burst into applause, many of the members rising to give a standing ovation (Antonio had chided Lovino to join in). Roderich, standing at the piano bench, looked especially pleased.

It was Francis' best performance of this scene yet, Arthur grudgingly admitted to himself, maybe even of all the scenes. There was no senseless flamboyance, no excessive acting; each movement was subdued, each gesture and expression controlled and thought out.

"Well, Mister Kirkland? How was it?" Elizaveta asked, skirt twirling with her as he turned to face the director, rubbing at her itchy, wet eyes with a smile on her face.

"It was decent. Fine. Better." He grumbled, running a hand through his messy hair. Elizaveta smiled, but it faded slowly when Francis did not make a comment. That, coming from Arthur, was definitely a compliment, and the fact that the Frenchman was not jumping on it was slightly concerning.

Arthur took notice of Francis' selective silence as well, giving a soft sigh and looking away from the stage, hangover making him too uncaring to start anything.

"Everyone just… go take a break or something. We'll back here later…"

Elizaveta sighed as everyone started to get up from their seats and leave; she could swear she heard him mutter a "_maybe_" at the end of his sentence. Roderich was waiting for her, but she waved him off gently, telling him that she would meet him in his room in a bit (Feliciano heard her as he was leaving with Ludwig and winked; Roderich flushed).

"Gilbert! Gilbert, wait a minute!"

The albino, who was leading Matthew out and talking a mile a minute into his ear, turned around and snapped.

"I'm busy, Eli!"

"Well, I need you now, so too bad!" She countered, coming up behind then and the smiling at Matt. "May I borrow him? I promise to bring him back in good condition."

She winked, and Matt flushed a little, nodding. "Go ahead. I'll see you later, Gilbert."

He turned to leave, pausing at the door and calling out, "Oh, and you did really well today, Elizaveta!"

The door shut behind him, and Elizaveta giggled. "You caught yourself a cute one, Gilligans. I'm impressed."

Gilbert made a noise of frustration, but there was a smile on his face when she'd said that.

"He is… so why would you interrupt our awesome make out time?"

"Because I need your help setting up Francis and Arthur?"

Gilbert's grimace deepened. "You realize I'm not a big fan of either of them, right? I don't fucking care about their happiness."

Elizaveta huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting. Gilbert shook his head, chuckling.

"That's not cute anymore, Eli. You grew out of it forever ago."

"You're going to help me because you're my friend, though. And because I know things about you that you don't want your cute little Canadian to know. Things that involve flutes and a boy named Fritz…"

She trailed off, smirking proudly at Gilbert's scarlet face.

He cleared his throat, coughing. "Well… hey, you can't do that!"

"Oh?"

Now Gilbert was grinning. "You can't. You owe me a favor, remember?"

"Since when?"

"Since Francis first came here, when I told you about him. You still owe me a favor. And my favor is that you never bring that up again and leave me alone for the rest of the day."

"That's two favors." Elizaveta countered smugly.

"Well, then, my favor is that you leave me out of this matchmaker thing, and my threat is that if you tell anyone about that brief mental lapse I'll show the _painting_ your secret boyfriend Sadiq made of you at your wedding to Roddiekins."

"Y-You wouldn't show it anyways. Don't bluff!"

"Wouldn't I? It's quite a lovely piece, he captures the swell of your breasts juuuuuuuuust right."

"…you've seen it."

"I _own_ it. Had to give him my grandfather's sword for it, but it was worth it."

"You gave up your grandfather's sword for that?"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather he had it?"

Elizaveta ran a hand through her curly brown hair in frustration, her cheeks pink. "Why are we even discussing this?"

"Because you want me to help you get Director Fuzzybrows laid by the French bastard. You're just a matchmaker extraordinaire."

Elizaveta sighed. "Go, then. Don't ever mention that _thing_ again."

"Only if you do the same, princess."

"Deal."

They shook hands, and Gilbert ran off to find Matthew, leaving Elizaveta alone to carry out her plans.

* * *

Hours had passed, and early evening had fallen. As expected, Arthur did not call the cast back for anymore rehearsals, no matter how much they may or may not have needed them so close to opening night.

Elizaveta, to her credit, had finally managed to get them both to meet her in the backstage area of the theatre. Francis was not terribly difficult to coax out; all she had to do was telling him she needed more practice, and he was very willing to help.

To get Arthur out of his room was much tougher; at first there was no answer and Elizaveta feared he'd fallen asleep. Soon enough, though, he'd opened a door to snap at her and she calmly told him she had a few questions about the role that came up in her re-reading of the script, and would he please come and discuss it with her?

So, at seven-thirty sharp both men were backstage, with no woman to be found. Francis had gotten there first, and had been tapping a rolled up script against his leg until he heard clonking too uncouth to be Elizaveta. When it was Arthur who'd come through the door, he stiffened, but decided he was not scared and so he would not leave.

Arthur grimaced. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He spat, but somehow it was still not as angry as it could have been.

"I'm here to help _Mademoiselle_ Héderváry, so if you will excuse us."

"I'm here to help Elizaveta as well. She asked me to come."

Francis paused. "What time did she ask you to be here?"

"Seven-thirty." Arthur answered quickly, and Francis smiled ruefully.

"I believe, _monsieur_," he started calmly, "that we have been set up."

"W-What…?"

"It is obvious that someone wants us to speak to one another, though I cannot imagine why."

Arthur could; he was thinking back to those damn tarot cards, and how excited Elizaveta had been reading his fortune. But it was her intention that bothered him; was she actually looking out for him here? And, if so, why _Francis_ of all people?

Well, he wasn't so bad looking. Sure, his hair was long and rather feminine, but… it fit a pansy like Francis. And his eyes were clear, and his skin clean and soft looking. He always focused on his work… even if always felt like embellishing it, it was because he put bits of himself into the character. Like a trademark, Arthur supposed, not always such a terrible thing.

"_Directeur_, you are staring." Francis commented softly. It was strange, not hearing him make a lewd comment about him "liking what he saw".

Arthur didn't answer. There were words eating away at him, and yet he could not say anything. So he simply looked away, at his own shoes (they needed to be shined before opening night, he noted), until Francis sighed.

"It looks like Elizaveta will not be joining us. _Bonne nuit, monsieur_."

Arthur heard his shoes click against the wooden floor. It was only when the sound of the door handled creaking was heard that Arthur found his voice.

"I know. That you weren't lying, I mean. I… know."

Francis paused, door at the handle as if he was waiting for more. When nothing came, Arthur caught another rueful smile.

"_Je suis désolé, mais, vous n'êtes pas_."

The door clicked shut. Arthur growled.

"…I don't even know what that means, frog."

_To Be Continued_

* * *

A/N: I keep forgetting to mention this, so I will add it in now. The play within this story is based on a poem that I am a big fan of, _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_, which you can read at http:/ www. bartleby. com/ 198/ (remove spaces)

Elizaveta's nickname for Gilbert, _Gilligans_, was an idea given to me from livejournal user **orangepencils**. Thanks for letting me sneak it in here~

Only one chapter to go, and an epilogue. As I am excited for these two, they should be written and posted soon~

Feel free to ask questions and leave criticisms in your comments, if you have any. I love hearing from you guys 3

crimson-obsidian-rose


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Only two days left to get your tickets to opening night of _Distance_, and they're selling quickly! Get your tickets now and see the newest masterpiece by the director critics are calling a young genius, Arthur Kirkland!"

Alfred really, really hated his job. Sure, Uncle Berwald paid well, and it made him happy which was good because he was family and if there was anything Alfred cared about it was his family, but otherwise the grueling job had no redeeming factors.

It was hot. The American wiped sweat off his brow so often that his trousers were getting darker from him drying his hands on them. His glasses kept sliding off his nose, too, which was incredibly annoying.

Worst of all, though, was how dry his throat always got. He would shout all day in the heat and in the end his water would be warm and gross.

"Good afternoon, comrade."

"Ivan."

The Russian smiled, holding out a bottle of juice. "It is very hot today, _da_? I thought you might like this."

Alfred looked from the bottle to Ivan and back again. It was… thoughtful. Alfred was suspicious, but he was far too thirsty to care as he accepted the bottle.

The first sip was very, very refreshing; Alfred found himself smacking his lips when he swallowed.

"Thanks, man. I needed this."

Alfred caught himself a moment too late, but Ivan was smiling and it wasn't creepy and so he found he couldn't take it back.

"You are welcome!"

The following silence was awkward for Alfred, as he scrambled to find something to talk about.

"So… uh… are you going to see the play?"

Ivan suddenly (finally) frowned, "No. The tickets cost too much."

"Oh… but, do you want to see it?"

"It seems interesting. It would be fun to see people I know not being themselves."

Alfred recognized the wistful expression and, possibly against his better judgment, slipped a ticket into Ivan's palm.

"What-?"

"Don't tell anyone. Consider it me paying you back for the juice or something…"

But Ivan was beaming, now, and Alfred couldn't help but smile.

Suddenly, Ivan looked up, his violet eyes peering right into Alfred's clear blue ones.

"You will come with me, _da_? And we will… sit together?"

In that moment he looked so young and so hopeful, Alfred couldn't let him down.

* * *

Opening night was in two days. As in the day after the next day. Arthur was only confident because he knew that his actors, as much as he gave them a hard time, were fairly competent and could carry the show…

Oh, who was he kidding? The blond Briton was completely nervous, finding new flaws in everything from loose seams in costumes (Feliks was not amused) to squared millimeter sections of canvas that weren't painted (Feliciano bursted into tears and ran into Ludwig's arms to be comforted).

It was Elizaveta, of course, who stepped up, taking the director by the arm and pulling him to his desk and his hot cup of tea.

"Relax, Mister Kirkland, everything is perfect. All the lines are memorized, all the costumes, sets, and props are completed, Eduard has checked all the lights and they're fully functional. Everything is ready for opening night and for tomorrow's dress rehearsal, so there is no need to stress."

"Y-Yes… yes, of course."

Elizaveta smiled encouragingly, "Exactly. Now, then, do you need a break?"

"…Everything is ready?"

"Everything, sir."

"Well, in that case… I suppose taking a rest won't hurt. The rest of you… just, be prepared for the dress rehearsal tomorrow!"

Arthur nodded sharply, and a few similarly determined nods were returned, so he headed back to his room.

Francis' words were bothering him. Arthur Kirkland, though he was too proud to admit it, had never learned French (he had taken French class, of course, but the instructor was unknowledgeable and Arthur had used that time mainly to work on his first script, not paying any attention whatsoever). It had never bothered Arthur that he didn't know French; he never considered that language to be all that important. After all, the greatest writer of all time, in his opinion, wrote in English, and so would he.

He didn't regret it, that is, until the moment two nights ago when Francis had said whatever he'd said and had not spoken to him since. Arthur tried to remembered the words, but by the time he'd gotten to a French-English dictionary the words were a blur of foreign sounding syllables that he could not separate into words.

Even though the words were easily forgotten, the way they were said was something that haunted Arthur since the door swung shut behind the Frenchman. There was heaviness in his tone, a weight hanging over his eyebrows, that made him look and feel so much older than his real age… it hurt Arthur in ways he did not know he could be hurt. It was guilt, he knew, because not only did he get the strong sense that Francis blamed him for something, but he found that was blaming himself for something too.

But, as Arthur lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, he was getting frustrated with his inability to figure out what it was that he felt guilty for. There was no one action, no one thing that he could point to and say that it was the source of his troubles. The only thing that came to mind was his (admittedly drunken) accusation of Francis' lying, but he'd apologized for that when the truth had come to light and Francis was probably worse off after that than he'd been before.

So it was not one thing that had upset Francis and made Arthur so guilty. It had to be more than one thing… maybe… maybe everything…

Because Arthur had never complimented Francis, despite the fact that he was the best Aaron that had stepped up on his stage. He had never told him how well certain gestures flowed with the dialogue, as if Francis had been in his mind seeing Arthur's vision and portraying it to a T. He rarely even ever treated him with courtesy; grunting in reply at every _Bonjour_ and never thanking the man for any kind gesture he might have performed, insisting that he could have held his own doors open or the like.

Realization slowly dawned on Arthur, and it felt like the warmth was being sucked from his body as he understood. He had been, in his own honest terms, nothing short of a _bastard_ to Francis, and the man was probably sick of putting up with him.

Arthur buried his face in his pillow, mind abuzz with thoughts. What was he to do now? What did he want, anyways? Francis' intentions… were obvious, he concluded with a flush. But was he after the same thing? Could he… _be_ with Francis?

Whatever it was he wanted, Arthur knew, he had to figure out soon.

Opening night was here. Francis stared at the closed curtain with apprehension bubbling in his stomach, though his poker face was in place. The show was only running for two weeks, and if things went well, he would be back in Paris once it was over, on the threshold of a theater in his mother country, this disheartening experience behind him.

Not that this was not a bad theater at all, Francis reflected. Most of the cast and crew members were warm and welcoming and friendly; while he wasn't exactly one of them, he certainly could feel like he was.

In fact, it would have been so easy for Francis to have stayed here, in London and with this rambunctious group of people, had it not been for their director. Certainly, Francis made a mistake thinking he could use Matthew to get Arthur's attention, but he had apologized for it. And really, other than that he had done nothing but be himself; he had even worked to tone down his alleged "Frenchiness" for the other. Francis no longer knew what he could do to please Arthur, and so he had quite shamefully given up.

"Bonnefoy- Francis, can I… speak to you for a moment?"

_Speak of the Devil_.

Francis turned around, to find Arthur Kirkland, composed in appearance except for the tenseness of his muscles, very visible in his wrists. He was nervous, of course; Francis expected he was going to be given a pep talk that ended in a heavily implied _'or else'_.

But Arthur's cheeks were beginning to turn pink, as he focused his shaky emerald eyes on Francis' azure ones.

"Y-You haven't been acting very well lately."

Ah, there it was. Francis pointedly decided not to answer.

"But…" Arthur continued hesitantly, "I believe that is… my fault."

"Oh?"

Arthur looked away quickly. "Yes, well… I suppose I haven't been treating you very well. The truth is, you are a very… gifted actor. I am glad you joined us for this production."

Francis briefly wondered if his ears were betraying him, but Arthur's mannerisms made it all too plausible that this was actually happening.

"_Merci beaucoup_. I can honestly say that I have enjoyed my time here as well."

"Really?"

"Mostly."

The silence that followed was heavy, and Francis wondered if this was going to be a pattern. The area around them was alive with people running and hustling to have everything perfect, but the Frenchman felt as if their corner of the set was frozen in time.

"Francis… I… am sorry. I have been treating you horribly since you arrived here, and… for the most part, you do not deserve it-"

"-Thank you, _mon_ _cher_-"

"Wait, I'm not done yet!" Arthur cleared his throat sharply, cheeks bright red. "I still… want to wish you luck…"

"Oh-"

Before Francis could finish the sentence, Arthur grabbed his gently by the necktie and had their lips pressed together in an unexpectedly passionate, dizzying kiss.

It's funny; Francis never realized they were the same height…

* * *

The performance was perfect. Well, nearly perfect; Gilbert suddenly got the hiccups during the scene while he was huddled under his rock costume, but Elizaveta and Francis managed to be loud enough so that he went mostly unheard.

Otherwise, though, everything went flawlessly. Critics were already clamoring to interview Arthur about the show, and the actors too were getting their fair share of attention.

"So, what'd you think, Mattie? Wasn't I awesome?"

"Awesome at being a distraction, maybe." Matthew teased, and for that Gilbert ruffled his hair. There was beam on his face, though, bigger even than Arthur's. Matt couldn't help but smile himself.

"Oh, hey, look, it's that cute guy I was stalking before when I saw you and Francis together!"

"What?"

But Gilbert ignored Matt's incredulous look, and waved in the air, calling out, "Vash, Vash!"

The disgruntled blond turned around, glaring at Gilbert.

"What?"

"So, you came to see my show, did you?"

Vash scoffed, "You weren't in the show!"

"I was so. I was the rock."

Matthew resisted the impulse to snort at how _proud_ he sounded about it.

"Wait… so you were the one who was making that distracting sound?"

"I had hiccups!"

Before either of them could get another word in, a blonde woman with a short haircut and tight dress came over to them, slinking her arm around Vash's waist.

"Hey, what're you doing here hun?" She cooed, and Vash flushed.

"N-Nothing. We're going now."

With that, Vash stalked off, and the young woman winked and waved before striding after.

Gilbert recovered first, snorting and laughing, "Wow, he's whipped. Who'd have thought it, huh?"

Matt simply shrugged, and Gilbert led him off to make out somewhere quiet.

* * *

"So, _monsieur_, what did you think of my performance?"

Francis had found Arthur sitting at his desk (which had been moved backstage for the show) after everyone else had left, thumbing the small bust of William Shakespeare and smiling.

The Briton cracked an eye open, only to close it a moment later.

"I'm impressed; it wasn't complete rubbish this time."

There was teasing in his tone, and Francis realized the lightness of it gave it something of an alluring lift. He grinned, sitting on the director's desk.

"I wonder if your good luck wish had anything to do with it," he started, eyelids low and face centimeters from the others. "Perhaps we should… try it again…?"

Arthur opened both eyes now and gave the other a confident smirk. "Don't push it, Bonnefoy. I hear Lady Luck is not very generous."

"On the contrary, I feel like the luckiest man in the world at the moment."

"Oh?"

"Indeed."

Arthur sat up a little straighter.

"Well, at the very least you're earned yourself a congratulatory kiss. But if you stay rigid again this time, I swear it will be the last kiss you will ever have."

Francis chuckled.

"I would not worry about that, _mon amour_."

Seconds later, when their lips were locked in a contest of passion, there were no more worries left.

_The End_

* * *

A/N: To those of you who has make it this far, thank you so much for joining me through this adventure. It was certainly an adventure for me, being my first multi-chaptered fic in nearly three years. I really wasn't sure I could make it this far, and so I really have to thank you all for the encouragement and pride you instilled in me.

Dedications are in order: To livejournal user **absynthess**, who not only betaed my first fic, but who was my original inspiration to get out of my comfort zone of writing. I'm sorry Hallie; I know you meant for me to do deeper plots, but this was pretty out of my comfort zone too.

To SpeakingThroughWrittenWords, for writing several FrUK drabbles in which Francis was, indeed, an actor. That is where my inspiration for this fic originally came from.

To "The Sexy Siren Reviewer", the England to my France and the reason why I ever even got into this pairing. Thank you for all your support, love.

Finally, to everyone who's ever read a chapter, left a review, or favorited or alerted this story. Thank you guys all so much!

An epilogue will be up soon. Until then, I hope you all enjoyed this story 3

crimson-obsidian-rose


	11. Epilogue

Please enjoy this last chapter :3

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

**

* * *

Save the Drama for the Stage, Epilogue **

The sky was overcast, but the air was thick with humidity and sweat. It was hot, but the entire cast of the theater had left the comfort of the cool indoors and was bracing the heat outside.

Alfred and Matthew were going home. Their trunks had been packed, and their ship back to New York was to leave in a few hours. It was surreal, both for the two of them and for everyone else; the seven weeks the teens had spent with them, two weeks for the show's run and the other five setting up, had felt like a lifetime to all of those involved. To think that it was coming to an end, it wasn't easy to wrap their minds around it.

Matthew sighed, sat on his trunk, the sun beating on directly on his head. It almost felt like his blond hair was being cooked, but he was too upset to care. Distractedly fingering the latch beneath his palm, his purple eyes snapped up every time he heard the footsteps of another person passing, only to look back down at the cobblestone in disappointment when he found it was not the person he was waiting for.

"Hello, Matthew. Mind if I join you?" Elizaveta was smYiling at him, and Matt blinked up before shifting over slightly, only to find that his trunk, not meant to be used a bench, was not wide enough to seat two people. Elizaveta chuckled.

"I only said that to get your attention. You seem rather down, even more so than I'd expected."

Matt flushed, kicking at the dirt. "You… uh… you haven't seen Gilbert anywhere, have you?"

Elizaveta's bright emerald eyes widened slightly. "Wait, you mean he hasn't come to see you off at all?"

Matthew shook his head, and the Hungarian huffed. She gave Matt a gentle pat on the head and marched off promptly, muttering something that sounded like _"Oh, I'll find him for you."_

The Canadian was suddenly worried for his sort-of boyfriend.

"Comrade Alfred, what is happening?"

Matthew turned around suddenly, in the same moment Alfred did; while one cousin looked puzzled, the other turned a little bit pinker.

"Oh, hey Ivan!" Alfred replied smoothly, but Matthew could sense the hesitance in his tone. It was amusing, to say the least, seeing the suave boy start to lose his cool.

"What is going on? Why do you and Matthew have large bags with you?"

Ivan had a deep frown marring his usually childishly happy face; Matt figured that he and Al must have built up some friendship he didn't know about if the Russian was so troubled.

"We're going back to America… you know, back home?" Alfred chuckled, rubbing his neck sheepishly. Ivan's face fell further, and the American bit his lip.

"Listen, Ivan, I-"

Alfred stopped suddenly, looking Matt right in the eye. The older looked away sheepishly, but Alfred wasn't taking any chances.

"-Come on. I think we should go talk."

Alfred and Ivan soon vanished from the sight of the others, turning the corner and standing under the awning of a shoe shop. When they stopped, Alfred looked up the few centimeters between them to find Ivan's violet eyes focused on him.

"So, you are leaving now, _da_?"

His voice sounded defeated and hurt; Alfred sighed.

"I have to go back, you know. University classes start again next week; this was only a summer job."

Ivan looked away, a bit bitter.

"No, I understand. It was nice being your friend."

Alfred brushed sweaty bangs from his forehead, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Just because I'm leaving, doesn't mean we have to stop being friends, Ivan."

"Huh?"

"We can… write letters to each other. Yeah, we'll write to each other. As often as we can."

Ivan seemed brightened by the suggestion, but Alfred could see that there was still something bothering him in the way he refused to meet the other's gaze.

"Come on buddy, it's not like… I mean, I'll come back…"

The Russian suddenly looked at the other again, and Alfred felt something like relief. That is, until he noticed the strange look in the other's eye.

"Comrade… would it be alright if I… gave you something to remember me by?"

Alfred blinked. "Sure it would!"

He was certainly not expecting Ivan to lean in, to bridge the gap between them and lay his cold, chapped lips on his own. A shock ran up Alfred's spine, but as soon as the other's lips were brushing over his Ivan was back in his place, possibly even further away from Alfred then he'd been at first.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I should not have… it was wrong of me to…"

"D-Don't worry about it," Alfred cut in. "It… I didn't hate it." He chuckled at Ivan's surprise, adding.

"But, you know, a warning would be nice next time. Like… this one."

As their lips met for a second tender kiss, Al decided he needed to return as soon as possible.

* * *

"Hello again, Matt. I have something for you!"

Matt was unsurprised to see Gilbert with Elizaveta when she returned, but he was surprised to see her dragging him in by the ear. She was smiling as pleasantly as ever, while the albino in her hand refused to meet Matthew's gaze.

"Gilbert?"

He made a disgruntled noise; Elizaveta hit him lightly on the back and grinned.

"Well, I'll leave you both to it, then."

"Where have you been, Gilbert?" Matthew started hesitantly once the brunette was gone. Gilbert sighed, playing with the cuffs of his sleeves.

"I just… I'm no good at this whole sappy goodbye thing."

"So you decided not to come at all?"

Gilbert simply made another intelligible noise. The younger blond sighed, jumping off his trunk and wrapping his arms around the other.

"It doesn't have to be a sappy goodbye. But I did want to see you before I go. I'm glad you came.

"W-Well… Eli forced me too…" Gilbert trailed off, catching sight of Matthew's bright indigo eyes, and sighed. "I'll miss you."

Matthew, however, was smiling rather cheekily.

"What? What're you hiding from the awesome me?"

The Canadian laughed. "Nothing much, just the news I've been dying to tell you all morning."

"…Which is?" Gilbert prompted after the other fell silent. "Come on, teeeeell!"

"Arthur offered me a job working as his assistant, once I finish university. A permanent job." His smile broke out into a wide grin, "I'll be coming back next summer and staying with you."

Soon an identical grin was spread on Gilbert's face. "That. Is. AWESOME! FUCK YEAH!"

A few people turned and gave him sharp glares for the language, but Gilbert wasn't bothered as he scooped Matthew into his arms and kisses him soundly on the lips.

* * *

Francis chuckled, watching with amusement as Gilbert continued to attempt to kiss Matt, the younger pushing him away with a bright flush.

"Ah, young love. Isn't it beautiful, _mon coeur_?

Arthur, standing a way away from the other, snorted.

"Hardly. What's beautiful about watching Gilbert snuck Matthew's face off? And they aren't much younger than we are, anyways."

"Ah, true, but when it comes to _l'amour_ they are practically _enfants_."

"And you're the old man, aren't you?"

Francis chuckled, bridging the space between them and wrapping an arm around the other's waist. He buried his nose in the other's hair, feeling Arthur's muscles tighten beneath him.

"How am I ever going to live without you?"

"…The way you did before me, I suppose."

Francis laughed again. "No, I am not sure I can go back to that lifestyle, especially not since my heart was stolen by a British angel."

Arthur wanted to snort, but his heart fluttered and he found he couldn't say anything for a long moment. He turned around suddenly, looking Francis in his eyes.

"Have fun in Paris... I… will miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Arthur." Francis murmured just as softly as the other had, brushing their noses together.

He pulled back and bit and smiled. "Here's an idea; while I'm gone, you will write a masterpiece for me to perform when I return."

"You just love to give me more work, don't you?"

"_Mais oui_. Also, I have one more request."

"Of course." Arthur huffed.

"It is a simple one; I want the main character to be happy. Truly, really happy. Do you think you can manage that?"

Arthur, taken aback, hesitantly leaned in and pecked the other on the lips.

"I think it's doable, yes."

His smile then was so bright, Francis could not help but lean in and take it in a long, deep kiss.

_**The End.**_

* * *

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to someone I love very, very much. She knows who she is.

I wanted to end this on a happy note, but first a message to the anonymous reviewer "xxxo":

Thank you for reading and reviewing my fic. I am very grateful for your constructive criticisms, though I will say I do believe you could have done a better job. Simply telling me that my characters were fake will not help me improve; I would have much appreciated you pointing out certain passages or giving examples of how I could have done better. I hate to call you out on this publicly, but since you were anonymous and left no contact information, I'm afraid this is the only way I could get the message out.

To all my other readers,thank you all so much for joining me on this journey. I received some negative reviews to this fic that I have taken to heart, and it make this final piece a little hard for me to write, but all your encouraging words helped me get through. To everyone who has read and reviewed, it means so much to me. Thank you, and I hope you will join me in future fanfiction endeavors.

crimson-obsidian-rose


End file.
